


Sunrise, Sunset

by Radioheading



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Character Turned Into Vampire, Dean Has a Sexuality Crisis, Dean Whump, Dean Winchester Whump, Dean is a writer, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Suicidal Thoughts, Vampire Castiel, Vampire Turning, Vampires, mentions of suicide but no actual action
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-15 06:25:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7211570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radioheading/pseuds/Radioheading
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reeling over the death of his brother, Dean drives to the middle of nowhere with a gun in his hand, unsure. But he doesn't know someone, something else is there, watching, who misinterprets a young man sitting alone in a car holding a gun. **Dean isn't and has never been a hunter, and Castiel is definitely no angel here**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, the story begins with Dean having come from Sam's funeral. There's no hunting in this story, so he's passed of natural causes. That's the only actual character death in this story. Thanks for reading~~

The solid weight of the chrome-colored metal polished almost-reflective shiny is comforting, an anchor in Dean's lap that gives him something to clench, to keep his nails from digging into the soft skin of his own flesh. It's all he wants to do, wants to tear himself apart, piece by piece and let the fragments scatter in the wind, carried away, never to be whole again. Indefinitely dissolved.

The silver of the gun is a jolt against the bleak background of his pants, black dress style he's only rarely needed to wear. Today he needed them. He needed them and shoes he doesn't like to wear because he has to polish them afterward to keep them from scuffing, a white shirt, the shade brilliant, too clear and pale, asking to be stained. His clothes are not the clothes of life. They aren't the wrinkled, day-old t-shirts and jeans of the day in and day out; no. He is shrouded in the material of death, punctuated by somber colors and 'for occasion' material. Crow black and too-white, dead and alive.

He is alive.

His brother is dead.

Dean has a heart in his chest that beat beat beats, the steady slow of a man in thoughts deeper than quicksand, the here-there-nothing of a single memory, a too-pale face, broad jaw and forehead, dark hair splayed against a pointless pillow, eyelashes closed over unseeing eyes. The scent of caked-on makeup is heavy in his nose, thick on his tongue and he swallows the oily remnants down, trying to swish them away but they stay, the last pieces he has of Sam whose cheek had been so _cold_ beneath Dean's lips, so still and rigid and lifeless. The last of his family has dwindled, been reduced to dust carried away with the softest of breaths, leaving him alone, heart heavy with the sudden nothing it holds, like hands reaching out into empty air. Fresh tears, saline he wouldn't let fall during the service leak out hot and fast, disappearing into the material of his pants, blending into the black as if they didn't exist at all, though the wetness under his chin mockingly contradict that idea.

“He didn't suffer, at least,” one of Sam's friends had murmured, soft words falling from soft lips, a nice sentiment that meant fuckall to Dean. No, Sam did not suffer during his quick, lightning fast aneurysm. Apparently, all his brother had done was look vaguely surprised as he fell to his knees, then onto his chest, lips forming an 'o' that was never brought to life because his breath had already stilled in his chest. So no, Sam did not suffer. He did not clench or writhe in pain and fear. But he was robbed of time, of life that was just getting good, having graduated law school only a few weeks prior.

“Now you get to pay off those loans,” Dean had joked at the graduation, slipping an arm around his too-tall brother, the fabric of his suit (so similar to the one he wears now) slippery against Sam's robe. Not that he'd had any, really. Sam is—oh, _fuck,_ was—the king of grants, of no-parents-just-an-older-brother sob-story essays that won him more than enough to get by.

He won't do it. He won't pull the slim piece of metal, won't launch an easy bullet waiting in its chamber, licked by flames just before parting the skin of his temple. He can't. Because even though Sam is gone and he is _without,_ a spec in a busily spinning world, he isn't selfish. He will continue a life a little bit more pathetic, like a painting with all the colors bled out until it's his turn and he finds reprieve in the nothingness of finality.

He lets the weapon, innocuous, rest, brings his hands up to the wheel where he rests his head, knowing he should go home, that being parked in the middle of nowhere next to an abandoned house he told ghost stories about as a child is immature. He's running away, trying to escape backward into time where he and Sam were alive together, before adult thoughts had invaded their lives. But there will be messages on his machine and food from all-but strangers in his fridge, on his table. Food so he can keep on going, flowers so he can look at something pretty and not think about how his brother is rotting in a box somewhere, skin peeling, flaking, bones shriveling beneath the quiet exterior of cemetery ground.

His shudder is interrupted by a few quick taps on his window. There's someone out there, someone in the middle of nowhere with him. He glances up, chin jerking quickly, surprise flaring in him like a pool of gasoline catching alight.

“Fuck,” he hisses, jumping in his seat, pressing back into the leather. It's the first and last thing he manages to say before he catches sight of two pinpricks of light, the shade a strange, hazy blue, just outside the glass of his window. They're the only things in the dark, like headlight shining down a road. And as he stares, they become all he can see, absorbing pools that beckon, that caress his tight back with long-fingered hands, calming him. Soothing him. Why shouldn't he give in?

 

*** 

Dean's pulled out of his hasty sleep by a cat's-tongue-rough voice. It's low, just by his ear and it starts him from a fog of restless dreams that jangle his nerve endings, leaving imprints of Sam behind his irises as his lashes part and his vision clears. It doesn't reveal much at first, just the off-white paint of a ceiling, though a chandelier, a delicate thing of silver and crystal, throws bent light back in patterns that absorb him before he realizes what, exactly, is wrong with the situation.

He should be looking up at the roof of the Impala, at the slight singe from when he used to smoke, the time Sam fucked with his lighter and the flame leapt up high, singing both the spikes of his gelled hair and the cloth of the car's roof. He'd been more pissed about the car than his destroyed coif.

“Are you a god-fearing man?” comes the voice again, the voice he didn't notice before because he's coming around so slowly, mind lethargic, tripping through a haze while trying to peer out at the world around it. A reflexive swallow almost chokes him; his throat is dry, achy and when he coughs he thinks he understands how it would feel to have his lungs go through a cheese shredder.

A shake of the head, a search for the voice. It's not close anymore, has backed off into a shadowy corner of a delicately lit room that allows its secrets, that keeps only what's absolutely necessary in the light.

“Where are you?” Any attempt at intimidation is gone with his candle-snuffed voice. There's but a whisper of it left, smoke rising into air and dispersing fast. He sounds weak, desperate. Unsure.

“Where are you?” He tries again, but it's worse this time, a whisper that barely clears his throat. The light of the chandelier blurs in front of him when he looks back up, long-lined headlights in the dark. Fuck. He's been drugged. He didn't even drink after the funeral, didn't do anything but slip from the grasp of well-wishers and doe-eyed women shooting him looks of pity mixed with desire, that spark left in those still alive to reaffirm the fact, the animal need burning within.

“Fuck,” he mutters, now aware that the word is too thick, slurring over his tongue. “What...”

“I asked if you fear God,” the voice comes again, soft. Removed. It could be talking to an inanimate object for as much emotion is laid into the gravel of his pitch, the deep timbre giving away nothing.

The first breath of adrenaline in Dean's blood comes then, a mix of that strange tone and the odd struggle to move his limbs that comes to a halt when he realizes _what,_ exactly, is giving him trouble. It's a raw ring around his wrist, a pull that keeps him spread, softest parts of him open, vulnerable. He is an X on the bed—yes, the bed underneath him, each limb tied and secured. The mattress under his tensing back is too comfortable, a strange contradiction to his rag-doll spread pose. What the fuck is happening?

“No,” he finds himself saying, the first thing that makes sense, the first answer. The truth. He doesn't fear a god he doesn't believe in and that's all there is, a lack of fear, though a kernel of hypocrisy is buried there instead. Because he's angry, so angry with that same god he equates with the Easter Bunny or Santa Clause, figments of weak imaginations that need a reason to keep going.

“Didn't think so,” there's a shuffling, the softest of footsteps as his captor comes closer. “Otherwise you wouldn't have been sitting on my property, about to blow your brains in.”

There's breath on Dean's cheek now, and that voice, that contradictory gruff smooth voice is reaching for him, mocking sarcasm dripping from lips he can't see.

“Such a pretty color it would be against the black of that car. But really, you would've fucked up the interior. And it's such a classic.”

“Get away from me,” Dean orders, shuddering at the sudden touch on his wrist, the slow trail a single finger makes toward his elbow.

“Why?” The finger stops, is lifted away from goosebumped skin pebbled with fear. “I saved your life, you know.”

“What, so you could take it yourself?”

And there it is, out in the air. And he's provoking a fucking psychopath, but the fire that had been splashed cold in his heart burns now, embers awakening with rage. He wasn't going to fucking kill himself, wasn't going to let Sam down. But that gun, that gun had been _power,_ the ability to take his own life, to take control of it by putting it down, pushing it away. He just hadn't been able to let it go just yet, couldn't imagine not grasping its comforting weight. And now he's the hostage of some backwoods murderer or rapist and that control is gone again, tossed into hands unseen.

His breaths are sharp, pins and needles against his ribs but he doesn't notice it, or so much less so than he normally would because there's a new pain there, the solid burden of a body on top of his own, pressing him down into the mattress. He blinks, once, twice and the shape of a man before him clears, revealing sharp features more akin to a model than a murderer. But hey, Ted Bundy was a looker. The man, though sneering, can't twist his face into ugliness. His nose is sharp-angled, cheeks high, reaching up for eyes that rival the early morning sky for intensity, a blue that hurts to look into for more than a second, though that might be the intensity of the stare.

“What would I be robbing the world of?” There's still no anger in the man's voice. It's like hearing the black depths contained in a shark's eyes, a robotic, mechanical thing that's worse than any crime of passion. “Another lost soul burden on society?”

The last words change, contain the sting of glistening poison ready to be flushed into veins. They're a shock, the snap of a rubber band against skin and Dean's bucking before he understands how, with strength out of nowhere, the last firing of exhausted synapses. His hips twist and turn frantically, trying to dislodge the man, the rope biting into his willful limbs, the tortuous slide of trying to free his wrists and ankles from their restraints.

There's only a chuckle from above, a sudden shift in weight so the man is flush with him, arms and legs touching all at once, the pose of a lover, the person one chooses to let close. But Dean hasn't chosen a thing.

“Shh, human,” the words tickle his ear, skittering around the shell before sinking in and stopping his movement completely because the command is so _strange._

“Human?” He huffs, looking into a face that's too close, that's turning into shapes and angles instead of a person, details of a painting instead of the whole picture. What draws his gaze down is the in and out shaping of moving lips, the pushing out of sounds and vowels, all of which fall on deaf ears because what's _behind_ that too-red mouth is more important, an evolutionary trap that knows he is now prey, one to be hunted, struck down as easily as he would crush a mosquito between his own calloused fingertips. There, pressing lightly into  his captor's bottom lip are the tips of the unreal, teeth too long to be human, too sharp to be anything but deadly.

“No fucking way.” He's staring into a hallucination, that's all. Eyes wide, heart-racing, he's having a mental breakdown. And while that's less than comforting, it's better than the idea that his death is inches away, that he's a wolf's smile away from bleeding out onto sheets ready and waiting to suck his scarlet life down.

“Way,” the stranger breathes before angling the diamond cut of his jaw, stretching it to accommodate those teeth, those  _fangs_ , before driving them through skin and muscle and veins, all waiting to be torn apart.

Just before the euphoria hits, a balloon taking him up, up, all Dean can feel is the soul-splitting glide of daggers, the stop of breath and heart, the focus of his world narrowed to two tiny apertures and the spill of his life down the stranger's throat.


	2. Chapter 2

As quickly as his world narrowed into pinprick points of flaring pain, a fire tunneling through his body, intent on burning it from the inside out, it opens, flushing the agony away until it's a distant memory, like trying to look at the world through a mosquito net. A melody plays through him, strong and commanding, electric on his skin like a piano player's on the ivories. It's familiar, a song he recognizes because it hums in his own blood, the barely-conscious lash of pain so constant it begins to feel normal, sorrow so deep that happiness seems a mirage, illusions from dreams others have had.

 _This isn't my pain,_ Dean realizes, even as he's tangled deeper, wrapped in emotion too old to be human. Too twisted to be his, the straightforward loss of family, the roots of a tree ripped away, leaving him a weed in the wind. This is layer upon layer of complication, frustration he doesn't understand and the acidic bile of wrath with no specific target. _You fucking hypocrite,_ he imagines saying, pushing wrath into those harsh syllables as they pass his teeth. _You're no better._

The teeth leaching from his veins bear down once, a white-out of agony that suddenly stops as they're pulled out completely. The wounds trail blood like the heat of tears leaking from his neck, pooling in the dip of his collarbone before soaking into the white of his shirt, blooming like a flower on the starkest canvas.

“You know nothing.” Dean's blood runs over the vampire's chin, bathes those too-long teeth so they're red-tinged, tainted with another's life.

“Nothing,” A sluggish tongue seems to have taken up residence in Dean's mouth; it refuses to give any more than that, to slur anything beyond a solitary work. _You're nothing,_ he wants to continue, to deal a blow he know will land and slice deep because he's seen _inside_ this creature and if it's going to kill him he's going to use whatever he can to wound it back.

“I'll return later,” the vampire says, words titling with Dean's axis as dizziness spins its web, forcing his eyes closed as nausea begins to churn his stomach. “If you've not bled out by then.” Then a door closes, a gentle shut that doesn't fit the hasty exit, the 'I'm-a-bad-bad-vampire' performance. But the blood loss is real and the constant drip is worrisome; he can't put pressure on the punctures, can't staunch the flow, not with his hands tied. He pulls on the ropes, trying to find a weakness that doesn't exist. He tastes iron in his throat, the sweet salty thickness of his own blood from the dredges of his throat as a roar builds in his ears, the crash of the ocean as it pounds its fury into the sand.

 

***

The flutter of touch on Dean's neck is a sudden and sharp roll of nostalgia, a memory unfolding in him with a gasp, images of long blonde hair spilling over shoulders, laughing eyes and a light kiss on scraped skin, a lilted warning to be more careful next time. His mother was tactile, running her fingers through his hair, squeezing his hand or arm as she passed, pressing his small body to her chest to ease nightmares, to show love and allow their hearts to synch into a single time, a pattern of calm protection he relished.

Sammy (“Don't call me that!” he hears his brother say. He has to fill in for the useless protests now) had been that way too, more prone to hugs and the comforting gestures of love and grief and need, always open with things Dean couldn't afford to want, to give to anyone. The butterfly skim of fingers breaks him out of his memory prison, the past and all it's taken. There's a pulse of pain radiating down his side, a leftover 'fuck you' from the vicious bite the vampire had taken.

The bite.

The vampire pays him no attention at first, tending to the bite without even looking up, though eventually he feels the weight of Dean's gaze, the heat of  fury, confusion fueling an aggressive fire. Why would the monster help him? Dean finds himself staring into the vampire, the windows or doors to a soul that can't exist, not in a being like this. The blue is still bright, though laden with something unidentifiable, a muted tone that looks a bit like defeat.

“What?” The creature snaps, flat, human teeth showing, the predator tucked safely away for now. “Are you pontificating over the beauty of my eyes? Their cerulean depths?” He smirks, aristocratic features rearranging themselves into a haughty portrait of condescension.

Dean's voice is lodged in his throat, though his silence would have reigned anyway. He has nothing to say to this being, nothing left to give to the man who'll end him, a quick snuff to a flickering fire.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Dean's stare is hollowed resignation; he's tied up and weakness, like a heady wine flowing through his veins would keep him from fighting, anyway. There isn't anything to do but stare Death in the eyes, to show he remains in tact, no matter the games his captor has up his sleeve. Helping Dean is probably just a trick, a tactic to feed his sadism, a rug to be pulled out from under his feet when the vampire gets bored of his toy and decides to finish it off. The vampire raises his arm and Dean expects a flash of warmth across his cheek, a sharp strike to disorient him further. But it never comes, never touches down. Instead, the underside of a wrist meets his lips, the softest parts of their bodies touching in a way that is unnaturally intimate, a brush that sends nails-down-chalkboard chills through Dean's body. Wetness dribbles over his tongue, drenching his dry mouth with a taste that's a heart racing, the fever of bodies writhing in time on a cold night. He tastes the darkest of chocolate, bitter as it is sweet and thick, drowning him in stimuli, shutting down any higher thinking until he's just this moment and all he can think is _more._

When it draws back and all that remains is the spark of ecstasy, candied violet in his mouth, Dean whines, a moan of pure loss and begging. _Come back,_ he wants to say, and apparently his wish is his own command, though it's not until he hears chuckling that he realizes he's spoken aloud.

“Greedy, aren't we?” Then, a sigh, a tangle of fingers brushing back the short hair falling toward his forehead. “Why did you have to come _here,_ you stupid, stupid human?” The words mean nothing to Dean, not while the pads of the vampire's fingers card through his hair, zinging trails over his scalp. And then, just like the blood, _the blood,_ the pleasure stops and the vampire's hands busy themselves elsewhere, first on one wrist, then the other, then his feet. Dean should see that this is important, but the thrills of pure sensation jangle through him. Every breath is sweet, the scent of pine and a faint tingle of cologne easily detectable. How had he not noticed before? He doesn't hear Castiel leave, but suddenly he's alone, thrilled with the fibers of the blanket under him, the rub of them against his skin.

He curls onto his side before stretching out, making each and every muscle burn to show it's alive, to show _he's_ alive. And he is, buzzing with...

_Blood._

It's a gunshot moment, the shattering click when the ego pushes the id out of the way, takes back the controls and asks him exactly what the fuck he thinks he's doing. He falls from the bed, too shocked to care and gags, retching up nothing even as his tongue searches for the last of the nectar in the crooks of his teeth, the walls of his cheeks.

 _No,_ he thinks, over and over. _No, no, no. This isn't happening._ And...maybe it's not. He doesn't feel different, can still the frenzied thump of his own heart in his ears, each beat resounding like _alive, alive, alive._ Eyes open now, he sees a door across the room and pretends not to notice how good his eyesight is, suddenly, how the shadows falling over the wood should have masked its presence completely. He opens it to find a bathroom bigger than his bedroom at home, the décor lush but ignored in favor of finding a mirror, or in this case, many. A few steps in and he's staring at himself, his face and his profile and his side all at once, a Picasso portrait that makes the nausea and dizziness rise again, though his grip on the sink just below the mirrors is enough to keep him standing.

 _Just do it,_ he commands himself, staring into the white, the unmarked purity of the sink. It's too clean, like no one actually lives here, a decoration for aesthetic purposes only. He lifts his eyes, stares into them, into his reflection and opens his mouth, searching for something, anything that would mark him different, changed. But his teeth are still plainly human. Normal. Now he does sink down, hands still clasping at porcelain, sagging to the floor to let it absorb the monstrous heat inside of him, the intoxicant of the vampire's blood as it flits through his veins.

He lets himself drop completely, hands falling down as his head lolls to the side. In front of him is a love seat, furniture in a fucking _bathroom,_ cherry wood and ornate cushions, the kind you'd find in the fanciest of hotels. The kind you'd find in funeral parlors. But for the first time since he'd put his brother in the ground, Dean isn't thinking about Sam.

He has an idea.

 

***

Waiting is the worst part. Dean's not sure how long he sits still, counting the seconds and his breaths, but eventually his patience is rewarded. The door to his roomy prison opens and the vampire gets close immediately, sitting on the edge of the bed. It's then that Dean springs, using his weight to throw them both onto the floor. His strength, he's sure, is nothing compared to the vampire's, and he's almost dislodged as the man beneath him twists and tries to wriggle out of his grip. This is, until he sees what's in Dean's hand, feels the press of it against his chest.

“Where'd you get that?” He gestures to the pointed shard of wood in Dean's hand, relaxing into the ground beneath his back. The question is conversational, genuinely curious.

“I broke one of the drawers,” Dean refers to the bureau behind him, an easy destruction muffled by of clothes (material sensual, watery silks and high-thread cotton), like a silencer on a gun. The vampire's expression turns dour, mouth pulling down on the sides.

“That was an antique, you know.”

“I don't give a shit,” Dean presses closer, tightening his legs around the vampire's waist. “Who are you? What are you? Why the fuck haven't you killed me yet?” He's panting, hands aching around the makeshift stake, the fury in his blood urging him to rip something apart, to make physical the crater inside. To hurt something as badly as he hurts.

“My name is Castiel. You know exactly what I am,” the vampire opens his mouth a bit and the tips of his teeth lengthen, though it's not a single pair of fangs but two, the sets closest to his front teeth. They're tapered, ending with a deadly point just above the vampire's bottom lip. “And, Dean Winchester,” he says, speaking so easily around the weapons in his mouth, the pinprick needles that take life with the most casual of movements, a single bite, “I have made a terrible mistake.”

“M—mistake?” _Fuck._ He swears at himself for stuttering, for the waver that turns his bravado into an act.

“I was under the impression that you were going to take your own life when I saw you sitting in your car. I saw that I was wrong.”

“So you'll let me out, then?” A plume of hope, feathering out like smoke in the morning air rises within him.

“Yes. I will let you go.” The words sound genuine, but there's something there, the knit of the vampire's dark brows, the way he's not quite looking at Dean. There's an ellipsis, a catch.

“Eventually.” There it is, the truth hiding in gleaming packaging.

“Eventually? What the fuck does _eventually_ mean?”

“You have to understand,” and now the vampire's looking up at him, mouth pursing, then pulling down because it's being bitten by now-flat teeth, and Dean doesn't get it, doesn't understand at all because this isn't the monster that captured him, that was barbaric in his yearning for Dean's pain, his fear. This is somehow a person now, beseeching, regretful. “I thought you were some stupid human fed up by life's little trivialities. You all get to _be,_ get to really _live,_ and there you were, about to coat the interior of your car with brain matter.” The vampire shrugs, opens his mouth once before pressing those bitten lips closed, shaking his head.

“But you know about me now, Dean. I can't let you go without changing you.” He slides an arm away from his side, snakes it around Dean's waist and urges him closer, the stake still between them. Dean floats just behind himself, a half-step away and frozen, disbelief pulling at his edges. Become like this man, this monster?

The stake seems to move on its own, outside the vampire's body and then in. The flames he expects, the thrashes of pain and the dust and decay of a dying vampire never come. Instead, he's vaulted back, thrown against a wall that forces the air from his lungs. He hits the floor, jerkng like a fish on dry land, grasping for something that just won't come, for relief from it all. The floor is too smooth beneath him and his nails scrabble for purchase, curled into claws.

“Dean,” Castiel's there, standing over him, pulling the stake out like it's a splinter, distracted. It's thrown away, across the room. The vampire bends, kneeling over him, such a cruel reversal, though now Dean understands that he never had the upper hand, that he was only allowed to think he could dominate the other man. White builds behind his eyes, studded with black shudders, the world as it moves away from him. But then he's jerked up, a hand rubbing his back, face pressed into Castiel's neck until that, too, is repositioned so he's staring into bottomless blue, eyes that are the most inhuman part of the vampire, outside his hiding teeth.

“I'm sorry,” the vampire mumbles before pressing his slightly parted mouth to Dean's own. If he'd had any air to lose, it would have been gone then.


	3. Chapter 3

The kiss isn't all sharp teeth and angles, aggression and dominance. Dean doesn't expect the slow twist of a tongue as it's brushed into his own gaping mouth, as it tries to urge him into responding. His oxygen-starved brain can't be sure what's real or not, and this certainly doesn't feel like the truth, like the dazzling light of day as it illuminates the shadow of fantasy and make believe. Everything's overlapping, turning black and white to grey and there's a fucking _vampire_ kissing him, telling him that he has no choice but to become something else too, to die and be revived in a way he's never though possible. Forever alone.

“No,” his voice is slurred as the word comes out, sliding over the other man's tongue to a quick death. There's a sudden and complete split in him, thought versus touch, hedonism bearing down on intelligence, fighting it off in favor of the slicked movements and twisting drag of nerve endings too simple to understand that the sensations they're flooded with are unwanted. Dean feels electric, his pulse in his throat, heated by blood and pheromones and the creep of fingers that know just how to entice, slow strokes and rough digs at his sides, trails that are sure to be red and raised in a few minutes.

“No,” Dean says again, and this time he means it, jerking away from the vampire sharply, teeth gnashing at the other's bottom lip as they separate. His chest is rising and falling fast again, though now air gets in. “I won't do it. I'm not going to be like you.” He's staring into those eyes, a scattering of dark blue, shades like a finger painting of depth that rivals the sea. There's nothing to say, nothing but what's already been uttered, words without legs because he has no power and for all he knows he's already changing, skin paling, teeth lengthening.

“Please,” he whispers, unused to the quiet in his voice, the dry pleading. “Just let me go.”

“I can't,” the vampire reaches for him but too quickly, the space between closing too fast, a glaring _you're not in Kansas anymore._ Dean flinches back, hands raising, a mix of fight and flight that would probably prove pointless even if he were actually being attacked. But the other man just freezes, every muscle motionless except his mouth, which he licks before speaking again. “You know what I am, where I live. I—I can't risk you telling people about me. About my kind.”

“I wouldn't,” breathless now, the pleas bubble up within him. “I wouldn't tell anyone and who would believe me if I started babbling about vampires and things that go bump in the night?” He opens his eyes a little wider, bites at his lips because he'll do whatever it takes and acting is too fucking easy when his life, his _humanity_ is on the line. But all he gets in return is that look, that familiar look he's been getting since Sam died, the 'I'm-sad-for-you' glance, the 'How-do-I-say-this' flutter of nervous eyelashes. The other man's mouth is pulled thin, eyebrows drawn close to his eyes.

“No,” Dean says again. “I don't want to hear it. I don't want anything from you.” The vampire's not saying anything, is probably waiting for him to finish, to pour himself out, emotions and bile on the floor until he's exhausted and easy to handle. “So how long do I have,” he looks up, catches the other man's gaze and holds it, words even and plain, “until you kill me, huh?”

“How do you know you're not dead already?” The question is barely processed in Dean's mind before he's in an empty room once more, mouth left open for a fight that drains from him like blood from a slit wrist.

***

The vampire is rich. Or old. Or both. The house Dean is in, one he's seen from afar so many times, is not the dilapidated, cobweb-ridden monstrosity his childish mind had painted so long ago. He remembers staring at it, before he started coming to the clearing at the edge of town for reasons of a more salacious nature, misted windows and hot mouths yearning, with the eyes of innocence, wondering why, exactly, what looked like an empty field stretched into infinity would have a gate around it. Why an old house that no one seemed to live in would remain standing. The explanation, though, belongs in his childhood, when the idea of the supernatural wasn't a silly fantasy, the product of an overactive mind.

The room he's in is one of luxury, the sheets soft, the chair at the study desk plush. There are two windows, he finds, covered by crushed velvet, a texture he wrinkles his nose at as he pulls the blinds back, surprised to see the watery first light of day. The place feels _heavy,_ stuck in a century where lavish boasting was done with property, not words. He's waiting to be handed a goblet of mead and a leg of chicken, skin and fat still attached. The light helps a bit, throws colors on the walls as it refracts through the crystal of the too-ornate chandelier. Dean lifts his hands, watches as a rainbow is painted on his skin in splotchy patterns, fat circles of lemon and thin strips of a barely-there glow that dance across the lines of his palm as it shakes, his body smart enough not to be fooled by the forced calm he's talked his mind into believing. He can tell himself _it's okay_ as many times as he can think the words, but they'll just be the airy lilt of falsities, a rhythmic sigh that gets less and less true the longer he remains the vampire's captive.

Drawing his hand back to his side, Dean faces the sun, closing his eyes against its warmth, the kiss of its rays on the angles of his face.

Its _warmth._ Its _light_.

The sun rises every day. It's a fact as steady as gravity, one he's overlooked for thirty some-odd years because he's had no need to question its importance. But today, it matters. Today it's important.

 _Vampires can't go out in the sun, right?_ He wonders, his mind picking up speed, excitement. A way out looms in front of him, waiting to be jumped through. _Burning and all that shit. Safe in the day._ The door behind him is old but sturdy, and of course, locked. But even the best of doors have weaknesses and all it takes is a few kicks near the handle and it's swinging open, dust and wooden debris coming free as the bolt is dragged through the wall. The cracking and scraping are devastatingly loud, splintering the hush of the house, but when he hears no other movement, no surprised scrabble coming toward him, he leaves the room, finding a staircase just a few feet from the door. Each step down is made with held breath, legs stiff with adrenaline. _Just get downstairs. Just get out._

It's too simple, though. Of course it is. Because as soon as he spots the way out, the last barrier between him and the rest of the world, he's pulled back down into the depths of his prison with a single sentence.

“I thought you'd try the window first.” A glance over the shoulder reveals a face bathed in light, like a flower, made to soak the stuff up. “But you chose the front door. Pretty direct.”

“That's me.” He spreads the sarcasm thick to keep from choking. _So close._

“Come on.” The vampire turns, gesturing toward a hall. He doesn't check to see if Dean follows, leaves him alone to glance back at the door once before sagging in defeat privately, shoulders slumping before false bravado alights on them, urging him to pull his mask back on. He can't show this _thing_ weakness. Blood in the water means sharks, sharp teeth in soft flesh. The muscles of his shoulders sting and protest when he rolls them and turns, following the path of the vampire. He ends up in a dining room, another space detailed with objects of luxury, exquisitely carved chairs around a long table varnished so shiny it looks like glass. The room is lined with bookcases, each filled to the brim with worn-looking volumes, big and small, some in languages Dean can't begin to identify.

The table is set, an impersonal, simple spread of fruit and pastries, a gauge at his tastes. Or maybe just things the vampire had lying around. Dean can't begin to guess.

“I want to make you an offer.” The vampire looks at the chair nearest to Dean, a command to sit. He doesn't, though he rubs the top of it, resting his hands on the smoothly crafted wood, taking in the intricate patterns for a moment before acknowledging the other man's words.

“An offer.”

“Yes. I'll let you go free.”

 _But..._ Dean trails in his mind, waiting for the inevitable catch, the part when he has to sell his soul or his body.

“But,” the vampire pulls on the collar of his simple black sweater, a v-neck that reveals a swath of pale skin. It seems too simple for what the man is, for the house he lives in. _What should he wear, a cape?_ He smirks at the image, top lip coming up in a sneer. He waits.

“I need to know I can trust you.”

“You need to know you can trust me. Because it's so fucking easy to trust a stranger.”

“We won't be strangers when I can trust you.” The vampire levels his gaze on Dean, who has to pretend the focus of the stare isn't at all off-putting, that it doesn't dump toxic levels of adrenaline in to his overtaxed system. And raise the hair on his arm because he's _pinned,_ held down by the simple sweep of eyes as they run over his form and stop on his face.

“Great. And how long is that going to take?”

“That's up to you, Dean.”

 _Up to you, Dean._ He mocks the vampire, the echo of his name on the vampire's tongue aggravating, like someone snapping a rubber band on his wrist. _Up to you, Dean._

“The house is completely open to you,” the vampire continues. “But if you want to go outside, I'll accompany you."

“Awesome,” the coils of anger unfurl in Dean's voice, begging to be allowed to go wild, to scream and whine and tell the vampire that he's not a fucking toy, that he's a person and he has a life and he's not just going to tolerate being treated like a four-year-old. But he holds the embers of fire down until his entire body is clenching at it, the burn an intoxicant that has to be resisted. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to tour your lovely abode.” _And look for ways to escape._

“We're not done yet, Dean,” the vampire calls as he's turning on his heel.

“What?” He snaps. He can't help it.

“You've no incentive to stay,” the vampire all but purrs, pushing his chair back to stand. There aren't any consequences for you to fear. So every time you try to leave, or incapacitate me somehow,” he's closer, now, each step a roll of fluid hips, cat-like grace that leaves Dean as prey, filled with the urge to run. But he can't, not fast or far enough. “You will be given my blood and I will take some of yours.”

“H—how” the stutter is obvious, a trip that leaves his deep voice sprawled. He coughs and tries again. “How many times until I'm—I'm like you?”

He gets a Cheshire cat smile, one that would have lit up the other man's face, had it not twisted it with condescending pleasure. “It's not an exact science. It could be the next time I feed from you. It could be the twentieth. You won't know until it's happening.”

Swallowing is difficult, suddenly.

“So, Dean. Do you agree to my terms?”

“You won't touch me?”

There's a flicker of disgust on the vampire's face, a flash of surprise that makes him look innocent, if just for a moment. But then it's gone. Dean doesn't care; the vampire has raped him already, has taken his body through his blood, has made him a slave chained in a golden cell.

“No. I won't touch you without your permission.”

_You'll never get it._

“Then I agree.”

He feels the wind of the vampire's movement before his vision catches up and sends the right pictures through his mind. The other man is inches away, breathing in the air of Dean's agreement. One step back means the vampire wins, two makes it clear. He's surprised, scared. And he wants to get the fuck away.

“We'll start now, then.” Seeing Dean's confusion, the furrow of his brow, the vampire smiles again. “Oh, you didn't realize?” He gestures in between them, almost poking Dean in the chest. “Your little door-breaking tantrum counts.”

Opening his mouth is Dean's mistake. As soon as his lips part, there's a bleeding wrist pressed to the opening, blood somehow dripping freely, hot like mulled wine on his tongue. It's cinnamon and a kick like whiskey, old and warm and diving into his body like it was _meant_ to be there, like not having it was a lack, a hole he'd never known about but always wanted filled. He's lost as soon as the first wave glides down his throat, tangled in images that aren't his.

 _Castiel,_ he hears, a singular name over and over, then the face of his captor, scared and shaking, pale and pleading. _No, no, no,_ just like Dean. He sees the vampire seizing, the whites of his eyes visible, hair plastered to his forehead. Then the picture goes and he's vaulted into the stars, rolling through what feels like someone trying to scream themselves hoarse, an out-of-body gasping cry that flays him alive, turns him inside out. Vaguely, he's aware that his knees have hit the floor. That he's not supporting himself anymore. That he's being _held_ by the monster with its teeth in his neck right now, a bite that he barely noticed, though now each enthusiastic swallow brings about a shudder of axis-tilting pleasure that crescendos suddenly, leaving him panting against skin his tongue seeks out, licking at the vein openly to find the last drops of blood even as the wounds close. He should push the vampire ( _Castiel)_ away, should wipe his mouth and spit the night-spiked blood out, try to purge it away but no, he can't, not when he's mewling like a kitten, blind and deaf and dumb to all but the _taste_ of it, the potency that thrums through him now, life and energy and electricity bursting within. But is it changing him? Is he a v—a monster yet?

“Not yet,” the vampire mumbles, pulling Dean to his sturdy chest, contact he shrinks away from, though his body forgets to react. “Not yet.” It's so faraway, so quiet that Dean can't be sure if the vampire's speaking to him at all.


	4. Chapter 4

The ragged cycle of Dean's breathing, gasp-choke in and thick stutter out stab at the silence, at the false peace in the moments after the vampire finishes feeding, silk-smooth tongue licking at the cuts before allowing Dean's head to fall onto his chest. He cradles Dean, holds him like a prized possession, a child's arm slung around a teddy bear.

“Not yet,” Dean hears, each letter laced with the brackish acid of regret, of opportunity lost. He's _disappointed,_ sad that Dean remains human, for the time being. The sentiment is a withering jolt to every nerve ending that trails deep down within him, a sudden and sick twist that leaves the taste of bile in his throat, even as he swallows down the last of the blood, sweet trails streaming downward, a slow-working poison waiting for its moment. It leaves behind a thirst he doesn't understand, one his whole being reverberates with. More, more, more, _now_ is all there is, a drive that's stronger and surer than anything else he's ever craved. He's being tied to this vampire, strands of rope looping around the strength of his spirit, waiting to be pulled tight. The worst part comes when he wrenches away from the vampire's boneless embrace and every instinct he has tells him to go back, to rest his head against the creature's firm chest, to press his ear against the muscle there and listen to the steady beat of an immortal heart, its pattern never breaking, faltering a thing of the past. He doesn't give in, though the refusal withers his stomach until it's a pulsing knot, dampened urgency that throbs, shrilly.

But he can analyze that later, can agonize over this new snarl of conflicting emotion after he's gotten away from the vampire, when he's not lying on the floor, splayed like a fish out of water. Vulnerable. But even as frantic 'get up, get up!' messages zing through his muscles, arching back over his spine, the leaden feeling in his legs and arms tells him he's not going anywhere. That he's trapped again, this time in his own shell, the power of the vampire's blood anchoring him even as his fingers scrabble for purchase, slipping over polished wood. Tears come then, sudden and overwhelming, pressing and insistent. He grieves for two lives now, two strands snipped by fate's careful scissors. Because this is the end, isn't it? There is no life without will, and his has been dominated, agency stolen like a sweet from the fingers of a baby.

The hot salt drips easily, hitting the floor below with soft splashes. _Come on,_ he urges, staring at hands that twitch through exhaustion's paralyzing blanket. _Move._ He'd fucking _crawl_ if he could. Anything to get away. Anything to fight grip that slithers under his side, that heaves him up, manhandles him until he's laid out bridle-style in arms that feel like coiled steel, that give no impression of his weight being anything but feather-light. Dean's head lolls back, his view the angular underside of the vampire's jaw and a smooth-skinned neck, unmarked save for two circular punctures. The vampire doesn't look down as he carries Dean up the stairs, each step light, even. He expects to be left alone, to slip into the stifling dreams that call his name with increasing urgency. But, no. A second after he's put down, child-like, the vampire follows, stretching out beside him.

Dean drifts away wondering how, exactly, he ended up being kidnapped by a bipolar vampire.

 

***

It's a black hole night, summer, if the thick curtain of humidity that hangs low, close to the skin is any indication. It drowns him when he opens his mouth, each and every breath an effort, one that makes sweat gather at his forehead, under his arms. He can't see a fucking thing but he can _hear_ something, a rustling and grunting only a few feet away.

“Still hanging on? You're a strong one, aren't you?” The words are almost a purr, satin, but with an edge to it, a cat's tongue catching against the pad of a finger.

“Please,” a second voice says, a whispered rasp that's light, the fading rays of the sun as the world plunges into darkness. “I have a wife. I have children. Please.”

“I know you do, pet. That daughter of yours has your eyes. She'll grow into a stunner one day.”

“Am I going to be around to see it?”

The softest of chuckles is his reply, rising like smoke from a cigarette, elegant, reserved, though a quiet malignancy shines through, unmistakable.

“I'll make sure you see them again.” The sound of a bite, sharp and sudden has Dean wincing at the scene; his eyes have adjusted and he can make out one figure crouched over another, one who is lying on the ground, limp. Sounds replace voices but the conversation doesn't change; high-pitched breath, fast and desperate is met with even swallows, a deep sucking sound that lifts the hair on Dean's arms. He wants to back away, wants to run but he's frozen, forced to watch as the attacker relaxes back onto the balls of his feet.

“Now drink if you want to see your family again.” The man lifts a wrist to his own mouth, then presses it flush against the prone man's lips. He shakes his head, trying to avoid the blood that paints his mouth a lurid black, but some makes its way down his throat; Dean understands the sudden keening need he hears in the man's groans, why the initially refused arm becomes a tie to life itself, to nirvana and heaven and sex, the ring of pleasure as it overrides the mind.

The scene changes. It's a here/there snap, a blink and snagged thought as the world thins out and reassembles, leaving Dean unprepared for what he finds when his eyes regain the ability to focus. Dawn dribbles in weakly through the windows of the room he stands in, rays draping over the faces of two women tied up, laid out on the floor. They are mother and daughter, that much is certain; high brows, dark hair, though the younger has eyes of familiar blue while the mother's are winter green, the first shoots of anemic plants in spring, similar to his own. They're trembling, hissing out scared breaths mingled with words obscured by the cotton of what looks to be handkerchiefs tied around their mouths. Their dress is old-fashioned, nightgowns starched stiff and thick, cotton made to fit a specific form, not the shapeless signature of mass production.

“Didn't I keep my promise?” The chocolate-rich voice is quiet, a sinister smear of calm emphasized by the panicked gasps from the tied women. “Here they are, just for you.” The speaker, Dean finds, is icy. He light-haired but dark-eyed, delicate, thin features made serious by an expressionless face and thin lips that look like they've never known the feel of a smile. He is tall, lithe, catlike as he stands from the crouch he'd been in, and walks around the other man, each step bleeding with the grace of a dancer. He circles the other man twice, but Dean doesn't pay much attention, is too enthralled by the form on the floor, his own prison guard.

Castiel.

But this isn't the vampire he knows. This isn't the cock-sure bastard who pulls strings and throws power around like it's a toy; this is a man shattered, pieces strewn about too wide to ever be collected again. He writhes, muscles twitching and jerking like he's being shocked, electricity working through him, overriding everything with a spread of pain so all he feels is a white-hot death grip. His face is ashen, beaded over with sweat and smudged with dirt, eyes half-closed and lips in constant motion, tracing a single word over and over—'no.'

“Come now, Castiel. This is your last chance to _see_ them.” A quick pivot on his heel leads the other man away, toward the women. Castiel's wife. Castiel's daughter. Dean's throat contracts, dry and gritty. The man speaks again.

“Open your eyes, Castiel. Or I'll have some fun with them instead.”

“Please,” Castiel's voice is like clasped hands, a plea he knows won't be granted. He shuts his eyes tighter still, shakes his head back and forth and Dean can _feel_ what's happening, the denial that courses through the other man, the _let this be a dream, let this be a nightmare_ his entire body holds hope for.

“Castiel...”

When the man's lashes part, a wash of tears drip down, reaching the corners of his lips and stopping there, edging between the skin. Castiel's eyes lock on the forms of his wife and child, and like a man possessed, he convulses, back arching up, bending into a perfect curve. When he comes back down his mouth is open and blood, glaring in the first light of morning, trickles out as teeth extend, a slick, wet sound mapping their progress until the room falls silent. Dean wants to turn away, to hide his face and just pretend this isn't happening. He doesn't want to see the new vampire's almost-black eyes, pupils blown and animal snarls falling from his lips like the first flakes of snow before a blizzard.

“Got your fangs, I see.”

Castiel's head snaps up, eyes ticking to the source of the noise. He grunts softly, rolling over to lift himself to his hands and knees before raising his head. His profile is sharp, the line of his nose and the jut of his jaw and all Dean can see is a wolf, a predator scenting the air to catch its prey's direction. It doesn't take long; one turn of the head and Castiel is entranced, moving slow, crawling toward his family. When he reaches his wife, he wets his lips, tongue sneaking past fangs to wash away the crust of blood found there. His gaze is the dead blank of a shark, sight only significant in that it helps find food. There is no recognition, no warmth or love and like any animal would, Castiel strikes. His fingers curl in the white of her nightgown, a color that's rapidly losing its purity as it absorbs the blood his mouth doesn't catch, a steady drip that has the vampire moaning in ecstasy. He twists to better the angle of his feed, making the gag slip from her mouth.

“Cas,” she gasps, fingers working in at the elbow of the worn dinner jacket he wears. “Please. Please. Don't—Emma—Cas!”

But pointless words slide away from ears not meant to hear anything but the pulse of life that slows quickly. She whitens, begins to match that pale cotton and it's only a few long moments until her face crumples under death's strong-willed hands, dark lashes shutting for the last time, mouth falling slack. And then long-fingered hands, artist's hands, push the body away and reach out for another. The animal isn't done, hasn't been sated yet and Castiel, blood-smeared and beautiful and terrible, takes his daughter into his arms, a sick mockery of a father's embrace. She sobs, each sound wracking and terrible and when Castiel pushes back her hair, curls the same shade as his own unruly locks, Dean feels the heat of blood in his own mouth; he's bitten into his lip, neat teeth marks that well up like the growing river slipping from the girl's neck. Castiel is latched on, nursing at the fount of his child's neck.

“Now,” the other vampire says, moving to stand behind Castiel, before reaching down to stroke his hair, “you're mine.”

*** 

There's a line being traced into Dean's skin when he's dragged back into the waking world. A circle, a completed circuit trails over and over on the palm of his hand. He stretches, lifts his chest, sighs through his nose.

“You were screaming in your sleep.”

Dean stiffens. The touch on his hand falls away and Castiel's hawk-like profile comes into view. Words die in his mind because anger replaces them, a molten sheen of fury over the fact that there's another emotion buried within him for his captor, the roots of pity, of sympathy that are too deep to pull out. He shouldn't feel anything, should hate simply and easily but now there's a rift and it's not caused by the sigh of Castiel's blood that's running through his veins. _Fuck._

“It happens.” He keeps the words hard, all jagged edges and sarcasm. It's an easy role to play, an imitation of himself.

“What were you dreaming of?” Castiel faces him now, a casual gaze that's too searing, too focused to be human. The vampire points a spotlight at him, and it's all he can do to react.

“Nothing you need to know about.”

Castiel nods, absently, and turns away. He moves to get up from the bed, but Dean stops him.

“I want to go outside.”

“Alright.” Castiel extends a hand, though something tells Dean the vampire doesn't expect him to take it. He's not sure what's worse, a part of him wanting to, or the fact that when he does, he doesn't immediately want to pull away. Castiel's fingers are smoother than Dean's, a little cooler. The vampire's eyes narrow as he pulls Dean up and tilts his head. A flat, human tooth bites at the skin of his lip, but he remains silent.

Dean follows him downstairs and out the door, into the light.

 

*

It's two weeks into his captivity, a procession of days and nights, Castiel's quiet presence and his own bitten-off, one-word sentences, that Dean makes a mistake. He's been in the vampire's library all day, reading first edition novels worth more than his house and the beginnings of a headache build behind his eyes. The steady beat of dull pain, a drum in time to his heart, leaves him glaring as the vampire tucks into the dinner he's prepared. Vampires, apparently, eat. Dean's staring at the steak on his plate, a cut of meat he'd never thought twice about tucking into before, but now, as he watches Castiel chew and swallow with pleasure, satisfaction, Dean can't help himself.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, slitted eyes and fisted hands. He wants to hurt something, wants to lash out and destroy, whatever the consequences.

“Does what bother me?” Castiel's fork is halfway to his lips, a comical sort of pause that's only pathetic now. But Dean just smirks at the vampire's innocent question, at the pretend house they're playing.

“Killing people,” he says simply, words even and bland. “Does it bother you?”

At first, Castiel looks like he's been hit, a sharp slap that sends his chin back toward his chest, indignation's fingers pinking his cheeks. A blink and the expression's gone, a hollow sort of neutrality left behind.

“I don't have to kill to feed, Dean.”

Dean's eyebrows shoot for his hairline, incredulity dripping from barbed words as they tumble out.

“Really? Because it certainly felt like you were going to fucking kill me when you took me from my car and destroyed my life.”

“I was the destruction of your life?” Castiel holds his own, mean-spirited sarcasm edging in around his words. “What an achievement for me.”

“You've ended my life either way,” Dean all but spits, sitting back in his chair. “You want to fucking trust me, but I can never trust you. You won't kill me, but I'm as good as dead here.”

“Dean—”

But trying to stop him is a moot point. Dean is carried by the wave of his anger, the sublimation of grief and helplessness that has built and built and crescendos now in his ears.

“And I mean, does killing your family count? Because I sure as fuck watched you take them out without a second thought.”

He's backed into the wall behind him before the last syllable crosses the air between them.

“What did you say?” It's a growl that comes from deep within the vampire's chest. Dean can see the sharp tips of the vampire's fangs. Their proximity to his neck is infuriating in that there's no way to put space between them without baring the long line, inviting the creature to take everything.

“I—you”

“You saw that, Dean?” Like a snake, Castiel bobs and weaves to catch Dean's gaze, to force eye contact that floods him with adrenaline. He resists, fighting at the vampire's grip, but he's no match. He's nothing. “You saw how I was turned.” It's not a question, but Dean answers it anyway.

“Yes.”

“How my family was dangled in front of me, a newborn vampire that burns with hunger and a drive to kill.”

Dean just nods now, a stiff _what have I done_ that squeezes cold fingers around his heart.

“Every day I live with that. I hear their hearts and I taste their fear and then I see you,” the vampire's words are a waterfall, almost too fast for Dean to hear, but he's pretty sure he's not being spoken to anymore. “And your eyes and your scent and it was so much like....” He leans into the curve of Dean's neck, traces a figure-eight with his tongue. “And I thought you were going to....” Now a kiss on flushed skin, words mumbled there. “You're so familiar and I can't make the mistake again. I won't.”

His eyes are glassy, leaking when they come back to Dean's. “I couldn't stop myself. It was like I was pushed down, under the animal, the monster.” He flicks a tongue around one of his fangs, the sharp tip dragging a line of blood to the surface. “And then they were gone.” He looks down through his lashes, sooty against the pallor of his cheeks, the pale blue veins Dean can just barely see under the surface.

“The only other person I've ever killed was the vampire that made me.”

Words. They're sort of pointless sometimes, too obtuse in meaning to make sense to anyone but the person speaking. 'I'm sorry' becomes a thud in an empty vessel, a hollow ring of true feeling, true emotion. So Dean says it the best way he can.

The kiss he presses to Castiel's lips is careful. He has no idea how tightly the vampire is wound, what actions will set him off. And he's putting himself directly in harm's way, slicking a tongue past fanged teeth that scrape so _good_ , a burst of pleasure leaden with a sharp zing of pain and the bloom of blood that he slides over Castiel's tongue. But the teeth don't bite down, don't do any more harm than what he inflicts upon himself. They learn one another's motions, a tangle of caresses and playful nips that are easier once the vampire retracts his fangs. Dean lets himself fall away, allows the fluidity of the moment to carry him and bolster them both. Because however fucked up these circumstances are, however displaced his control actually is, for the first time in a long, long time, Dean feels _alive._


	5. Chapter 5

Dean is adrenaline and a buzz of cells set alight by nerves, the jagged edge of pleasure that's been crossed by fear, even if he tells himself he's not afraid of the big bad vampire. Other people believe his lies. He doesn't. And he knows, somewhere deep, past his masculinity and pride, the strength he still has coiled in muscles that have yet to fail him, that with Castiel, he is always on the edge of a blade, walking slowly, one foot in front of the other in hopes not to be tipped either way. There is tenderness in the man, he knows that, can feel it in the flush of Castiel's tongue as it passes over his lips, the way hands cup his jaw and neck, not holding on but _supporting,_ body taking advantage of a distracted mind, pressing close and they can, touching everything they can reach. The slide of long fingers behind his ear makes him gasp-laugh into Castiel's mouth. But to ignore the vampire's anger, the inwardly-turned malice, would be a fatal error. However human Castiel looks, there is a part of him that is all animal. 

And that's what makes Dean _feel._ The danger, the risk—it's breaking through the numbness of Sam's death. And that's the truth. But Dean is good at denial, so very good at ignoring what needs to be forgotten in favor of just keeping his head down and plowing through the roadblocks. So he loses himself in the mulled-wine of Castiel's kiss, groans at the thickening of his sex when the other man trails nips and bites down flushed skin to his collarbone, all but tearing the seam if Dean's shirt as he stretches it to reveal more, to lave at the sharp ridge like a kitten cleaning its claws. Deliberately, carefully.

“Fuck, Cas,” his hips move in time with his heart, short stutter-beats that leave his mind floating just behind the call of his body.

“Cas?” The vampire mumbles, moving upward to the junction of Dean's neck and head, pressing small, heated kisses just under his jaw.

“Name's too fucking long right now,” Dean replies, wrapping his arms around the vampire's back to give himself leverage, to rut up against his very obvious arousal.

“Ah, Jesus!” The soft glide of fanged teeth is unmistakable; they make no move to do anything but trace along the surface of Dean's skin, but their presence is enough to still him, to send his heart racing into his throat. The tips are narrow, sharp as the glint of a new knife but warm, as is the breath that mists on his neck, glancing across his jaw as it rises. Castiel _has_ him, can do whatever he wants to with Dean, whose humanity is no match to the speed and strength the vampire's shown. It sparks something within, a pleasure-streaked sort of tumble in his stomach, torn between the heat of pleasure and the chill of fear.

_Fear._

The dig of Castiel's teeth, the silent, adrenaline-spiked threat of what they're capable of draw Dean's thoughts to his brother, a car-crash well of sadness and the question of whether Sam knew what was happening, whether he felt the snap of arteries tearing at the base of his skull (“Circle of Willis,” the doctors had said on the phone, ignoring Dean's impatient-pitched questions. _Is my brother alive?_ ), letting the blood pool and pressure build until it all came crashing down, until his body was released from the control of his mind and everything just _stopped._ Did he know? In the seconds before his heart gave way, did he understand that the breath coming through his lungs was his last?

The wall behind Dean is sturdy, a smooth surface he barely feels until it's guiding him down, Castiel following, opening his legs to straddle Dean's, who doesn't notice the change in angle until he's staring up at the vampire through swimming eyes, heat that drops heavy and fast, tracing over his cheeks to his chin where they'll hang on until gravity proves to be too strong. They'll fall into the fabric of his shirt and it will be like they never existed (like Sam).

“Hey,” the vampire's whispering, feather-light words into his wet cheeks, lips pressing there to absorb some of the salt and swallow it down. His mouth, only slightly parted, allow the tips of his too-long teeth to press into view, drawing attention to nature's way of screaming 'danger, predator!'

“What's the matter?” His head is cocked to the side, eyes searching, ticking back and forth over flushed skin and a pressed-thin mouth, a display of emotional eruption that's desperately trying to be contained.

“I—,” Dean begins, concrete filling his bones, the admission too sharp to let go yet, too hard to say. He imagines his lips shaping the words, _my brother is dead. Sam is dead and I am alone and—_ but his vocal chords clench when the words try to slip through, carried by the wind of his breath. If he says it, it's real and _there,_ right in the palm of the vampire's hand. It would be stupid to trust Castiel, for Dean to give him anything, but he's fraying at the seams, too close to someone that looks human, that looks normal and caring, someone who's looking at him flecks of concern in grey-sky eyes. Everything in him wants to just curl up with the other man, to let the tsunami within pour out until he's withered and dry.

Castiel is quiet, waiting. Dean uses the back of his hand to wipe away the last of the grief he couldn't keep below the surface and lets it drop to the vampire's knee, drawing small circles into the denim. He allows himself to be hypnotized by his own movement, focused only on the way his fingers skate over the vampire's leg. It's hesitant, a question Castiel answers by tipping Dean's chin up, laying snow-soft grazes, presses of his cheek and chin under the harsh angle before weaving up, kissing at the corner of Dean's turned-down mouth before settling over the fuller part of the pout.

 _Help me forget,_ Dean asks silently, losing space and time to the kiss, shutting his eyes tight and surging into the vampire, the still-stinging wound Sam had left behind burning into their embrace, sparking it with passion Castiel growls at, a cat's purr hum that vibrates between them.

“If you..” Dean explores Castiel's mouth, a carefully-orchestrated dance that keeps the vulnerable muscle away from the tips of the fangs, then drawing back enough so he can feel the other man sway forward, his reluctance to let go. “If you just bite me,” eyes still closed, Dean arches his neck back, “Do I become a vampire?”

“No.” If the words are stilted, Dean doesn't notice, too busy convincing himself to take the next step, to feed into the flush building under his skin and just let go.

“Come on, Cas,” he breathes, high on his recklessness, expectation knotting his stomach. “Bite me. Please.”

A draft's sudden chill across his fevered cheek is the only indication of any reaction from Castiel. The room is quiet enough to hear the faint adjustments a house makes at night, the creaking protests of wood as the temperature changes, and his own panting breath. Like a dream, he is shaken from his fantasy, the sprint he'd thrown himself into, an escape, if just for a moment, from Sam. When he opens his eyes, blinking to clear the haze of lust left behind, Castiel stands a few feet away, looking down at him with bruised-red lips and the wild darkness of thinly-veiled restraint in his gaze. In the next moment, though, Dean finds himself in front of a stranger, a cold, closed expression fixed on Castiel's face, drawn tight like a rope just before it snaps from pressure.

“Get out of my sight,” he commands, reducing Dean into a child banished to his room. Castiel has been drained of his blue-flamed flicker burning beneath the surface, has collapsed into a steely authority Dean doesn't dare challenge. When he gathers himself, the vampire watching, gauging every movement, he is still achingly hard, sex twitching with unfulfilled need that only fuels the shame that lies like grease on his tongue. A glance over the shoulder, a chance to catch Castiel's face is made in vain; the room is empty.

***

Castiel's existence is reduced to a shadow, a barely-there dinner companion who speaks bitten-off syllables when spoken to, as if each word burns his tongue on the way out. For a few days, Dean allows the silence to settle, a veil obscuring their gazes from one another as they tiptoe around whatever, exactly, has happened. But patience is not a virtue Dean finds any worth in, so when he wakes one morning from dreams that leave a film of confusion and doubt, twisting images and faces, he finds himself unable to hold back the words that are scratching at the back of his teeth, waiting to be set free.

“Why,” he asks, running a hand through hair tousled from sleep's messy fingers, “Am I still here?”

Castiel is sitting at the dining room table, already dressed in jeans and a dress shirt that probably cost more than Dean makes in a month. _Made_ in a month. Lips pursed, he takes in Dean's straight-from-bed form and raises an eyebrow.

“Why am I here, _Castiel?_ ” He curls his lip around the name, glaring at the vampire. _That's right,_ he thinks. _You fucking look at me._ “You obviously don't want me around anymore, right? And, no offense,” he seethes, the words delicious in their malignancy, “But I'd prefer not to live with a guy who acts like a premenstrual teenager.”

“You're still here because I don't know if I can trust you, Dean.” Condescension drips heavy, like the juice from a peach.

“I'm not a fucking child,” he snaps back, huffing air into his chest before taking a step forward. Dean is a man of simple truths and logic, and Castiel isn't playing fair. There's something more to the story, a card hidden in a palm that says Dean's not getting his way. Ever. So he takes a stab, because rationality leaves the building when there's nothing left to lose.

“I'm _familiar,_ right?” He's been putting the clues together, piecing what he can of the vision of Castiel's wife and the vampire's own words. “I have your wife's eyes and, what, her scent?”

“Be careful,” the vampire warns. His tone remains calm, the surface of a placid lake, but his hands tighten on the edge of the table, sending the blood away from his fingers.

“Are you denying it?” Dean's in the vampire's space now, watching his eyes narrow until only a slice of blue can be seen, their pale color made more striking by the length of his thick lashes. “Are you telling me you didn't take me as your prisoner because I remind you of the wife you murdered?”

“You want the truth, Dean?” Castiel is on his feet now and the room thickens with tension, the crackle of thunder just before lighting touches down. “I took you because I thought you were some pathetic loser who needed to be taught a fucking _lesson._ I thought you were going to blow your brains out in a classic car wearing a GQ suit. So I wanted to scare you, to get you off my property. And then you looked up, Dean. And Alexandria was staring back at me. And I breathed in. I breathed in and you were lily of the valley and the smell right before it snows, just like _she_ was.” Now it's Castiel's eyes that shine, beacons that root Dean to the ground. A rock forms in the pit of his stomach; a man is breaking in front of him, a fissure erupting and all he can do is stand back and hope he doesn't fall into the pit because there's no one to pull him out. No one to save him here.

“And I haven't—It's been almost 100 years since I _killed_ her. Since I dug my teeth in and drank until she was gone.” Red-tinged tears drip now and Dean is reaching, opening his arms and something deeper, something more important inside of himself, something he doesn't understand, not even when a faint spark of completion, contentment, hits as his fingers make contact, grasping the light fabric of Castiel's shirt.

“It wasn't—” Dean should be digging into the vampire, sharpening every word to wound the worst, but he can't. There's something else there, something that surges to the surface as he guides the vampire's face up. “It wasn't you. It wasn't your fault and she forgives you. She knows it wasn't you, that you couldn't control it. She knows.”

Castiel crumples, gasping for air Dean's not even sure he needs. There's something so right, though, about the way the vampire fits into the space between his neck and shoulder, the way they entwine, Dean supporting most of the other man's slight weight.

“Come on,” he whispers into slightly wet hair, the perfume of lemongrass and rose still strong from his shower. The vampire's lips move, but nothing comes. Dean doesn't need anything, just guides the other man upstairs and lays him down on his bed before climbing next to him, hands going to the buttons of his shirt.

“What—” Castiel starts, but Dean just shakes his head, lips quirking in a smile. The shirt comes off. Then the undershirt. Soon, the vampire is revealed, pale and coiled tight, worry and fear stark in his blown pupils. But he lifts his hands, tugs at Dean's shirt before lifting it, then edging down the pajama bottoms slung low on his hips.

Dean takes his time, opens Castiel's body with drawn-out kisses and playful nips until the vampire melts, boneless, into the bed, fingers straining in the sheets to keep down the hands Dean slapped away when they reached to reciprocate. Some spots draw hisses of surprised pleasure, others laughter, but it's all beautiful to Dean, who keeps his eyes down to conceal the wonder sparkling there. And maybe he's hiding something else, something he doesn't even realize, because every ministration, every dip and plane of Cas's body is somehow already memorized, as are the glory of the sounds that spill past his lips, the half-frantic pleas and compliments and calls to God that have Dean moaning or chuckling, depending.

“Kiss me,” Castiel finally orders, pulling Dean up, the friction chasing away any inclination he has to fight the command. Castiel snaps his hips toward Dean's, rolling and undulating so their lengths brush, velvet skin searing hot. Dean's losing himself, on the verge of vaulting into the stars when Cas tilts his head and finds the strongest pulse in Dean's neck.

“Do it, Cas.” _Please._

“I won't hurt you this time,” Cas murmurs, words obscured as he stretches his mouth, fitting it to the vein. “I won't hurt you.”

“I kno—” His voice is pushed back down, drowned by a surge of ecstasy so complete he wonders, vaguely, if he hasn't left his body. He's turned inside-out and emptied of pain, of the hollow parts that were doing their best to eat him alive. He is whole, somehow, filled with a connection that blooms like a flower, its head tilted up toward the sun. It's light and heat and the race of hearts as they sync and find a melody in one another. If he could speak, if he could funnel what he felt at that moment, a gold-drenched instant, he might have pledged love. Instead, his eyes flutter shut and his vision goes black.

***

Waking without being certain how he fell asleep has never sat well with Dean; this instance is no different, but when he rolls over on slithery-silk sheets, his mouth pulls up without his permission and he stretches like a cat, back arching with the sweet burn of overtaxed muscles. The other side of the bed is empty, though there's a single piece of paper where Cas' head should be.

All it takes is three words. Three words to shatter the mood he'd woken up in, though he can't be sure why his stomach plummets at the sight of them.

_I trust you._


	6. Chapter 6

The floor is warm, bathed by a ray of sun reaching through the window, under Dean's feet. He perches there, still, with the note clenched between his fingers. The ink used to spell out the single sentence isn't from a ballpoint pen; it's thick, weaving the shape of each letter into a delicate thing of beauty, so unlike the scratched-out scrawl of his own handwriting. He would touch it, trace the words but the fear of smudging the ink holds him back. And...there's something else, something twisting inside that sets him on edge. It's in the corner of his eye, flitting out of his periphery as he searches for it, but the unmistakable aftertaste of _wrongness_ sits oily on his skin, spreading with every second that ticks on, punctuated by his heart.

Reluctant steps bring him downstairs after he's struggled into a pair of jeans and the crumpled shirt Castiel had left on the floor last night, evidence of their tryst. His cologne has settled into the collar of the button-down, a warm mix of star anise and leather, the softness of citrus barely detectable but there every time Dean breathes in. The stairs creak under him, announcing his path to the house at large, so he half-expects to find the dining room empty when he walks into it, bare feet just peeping past the door frame. Castiel sits at the table, a piece of pear crossing his lips, its juice folding into the lines of the blushed skin, still bruised-dark from their not-so-gentle kisses. His eyes are on a newspaper laid flat on the polished cherry wood, scanning the lines of text, swarming ants marching in straight armies through sand.

“Hey,” Dean says, the wrongness spiking again, though it doesn't leak into his voice, the sleep-deepened vocal chords that stay surprisingly strong under his concern. Castiel should have heard him come in, should be looking at him, not avoiding his gaze to read news he's not a part of.

A beat passes and Dean is acknowledged, brushed over by shuttered eyes, their depths muted, too still, to passionless to belong to Castiel.

“Come in, Dean,” he says, but it's not inviting, isn't anything but strange and Dean thinks, maybe, if he just stays there, remains on the outside, that they can go back to yesterday.

“I have a feeling you don't actually want me to,” he murmurs, sliding his fingers into his pockets, the facade of nonchalance easy enough to slip into. Cas' lips tighten, but his face remains passive, slightly questioning.

“Why wouldn't I want you to?”

“I don't know, Cas, but averted eyes and waking up to ominous notes in bed? You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”

“Dean, I—”

“Save it.” Dean squares his shoulders, leans into the door frame. “Tell me exactly what you want, Cas. I'm not up for deciphering mixed messages. I know how to take a fucking hint. But under the circumstances, if I'm going to be living here,”

“You're not,” Cas interrupts, sharp enough to cut Dean's words as they filtered out. “I trust you, I said. You can go now.”

“I can go now.” Dean nods, presses his lips together. “What, now that we've fucked, you've lost interest? Off to catch a new, feistier victim?”

“Did you want to stay, Dean? Just a few days ago, I was a monster.”

Dean can't argue. But things change, and the names that had been launched so carelessly from his lips were outrage and fear embodied, a cat hissing at a threat, puffing its fur out to seem bigger, stronger.

“Aw, what's wrong, Dean?” Castiel stands, brushing off his pants. “Don't tell me the big bad vampire hurt your feelings.”

“Fuck you,” he says before he can stop himself. “You're baiting me on purpose. You're trying to provoke me.” One step in and his heart is racing, banging against his ribs as he moves closer. “Don't forget that I've _seen_ you, Castiel. I've seen the worst in you and I've felt it and you know what? I want you. I fucking want _you._ So look at me. Look at me and tell me to go.” He's panting, holding back the urge to just give in, to run away while he has the chance. This is _different,_ this thing with Castiel, and he has to try, has to keep the wispy smoke of their connection from slipping through his fingers.

“Tell me,” he says, hating the note of desperation, the sound of need so obvious.

“Dean,” Cas is _looking_ at him, hands darting forward before he pulls them back to his sides, lacing shards of hope through Dean. This is an act. It's to drive him away.

“You want me, Dean?” Cas lifts a hand, though this time it settles firmly under Dean's chin, forcing their gazes to lock before the vampire speaks again and his attention is called to those opened lips.

“This is what you want?” His fangs extend, and Dean isn't just staring into the man's facade anymore; this is the real Castiel, the man, the creature, a terrifying mix of the two. Dean shapes a word, a single syllable, though it comes out a choked half-whisper.

“Yes,” he tries again, fingers rising to the soft strands of Cas' hair, a touch the vampire tilts into, though his eyes never leave Dean's, their depths heavy with expectation, waiting for rejection, for the moment to splinter and crack.

“One more drop of my blood, Dean. That's all it will take.”

“Take—what are you talking about, Cas?”

“If I bite myself when we kiss, if I ever want to heal you, god, Dean, I'm so stupid.”

It's laid bare, a confession he's reluctant to put together but the pieces are already starting to fit themselves, blooming into a picture like an exposed photograph dipped into developer.

“One more drop,”

“And you turn,” Cas finishes. “I didn't—I didn't think it would happen like this, Dean. But the blood's there and it's just waiting, waiting to take over. And I can't risk it. I won't make you like me.”

“Like you,” Dean parrots, seeing himself, but changed, a feral layer hiding just underneath earnest humanity.

“So you'd let me die, knowing how I feel?”

“What?” The vampire blinks at him, jerking out of his light grasp. “Dean, no. You can't want this. I won't let you—”

“I don't want this.” Dean's hands draw his focus, their limp-muscled vulnerability. They're a safe haven, a place he can look so he doesn't have to see Castiel's revulsion. “I want you. And I'm ready to take what comes with that.”

The response is silence, a pillow that chokes him of air, pushes it back into his throat until he's choking on it, gasping around its weight.

“Your keys are on the table by the front door. Your car is in the driveway. Please just go.”

Dean doesn't turn back as he leaves, but he does stop.

“If you let me go,” he shakes his head, burying the press of tears trying to build, “Then you deserve to be alone.”

***

There are 60 messages on Dean's voice mail. At first, they're good-natured shaky, the sort of false cheer injected into voices to cover up the worry and concern actually felt. Friends and acquaintances ask how he is, how he's doing, _what_ he's doing and invite him to dinners and social outings he knows he wouldn't have attended. The hidden concern becomes a little more tangible as the messages continue on, before anger and fear settles, demanding voices asking where the _fuck_ he is, what he could possibly be doing. He sighs, erasing them all. A mass emailed apology will have to suffice, as he really doesn't have it in him to talk to anyone and pretend like he cares.

His lawn is overgrown and there's mail piled at the door, the receipts of bills he's thankful are just proofs of what's been deducted automatically, a process that would have continued had he died by Castiel's hand—or, teeth, for that matter, until his account dwindled to nothing. And maybe then people would have actively tried to seek him out instead of leaving halfhearted messages after being prompted by a robotic voice to start talking after the beep, thanks.

The only call he makes is to his editor, who picks up the phone with the seething tone that he knows is a mask for actual concern, genuine caring that has her swearing up a blue streak before demanding an explanation.

“I—Sammy,” he chokes, pressing a hand to his face so more aching words can't tumble free, so he can press back on the prick of tears that fall as he hears a muffled gasp from the other side of the line. But it isn't just Sam's face that flits through his mind's eye as he tries to collect what dignity he has left. The shards of it are sharp, shriveling, and each piece cuts him as he swallows the hurt down.

“Dean, hon.” Elaine is the only person who gets away with using pet names, who's earned the right to pull a parent card. And it's Sam's fault, really, Sam who had sent her (and every other publishing company in the tri-state area) copies of scrawled poems he'd written, slips of his sanity and all he couldn't keep on the inside as he worked full time and raised his younger brother.

“I know. Believe me, I know. But you can't disappear on people. You've got to stay with the living.”

_Don't I know it._

“I'm back now,” his voice is gruff as the receiver catches it, transmitting all the pain he won't name over telephone lines. “I'm gonna start working tomorrow.”

“You take your time, honey,” Elaine's words are wet, and she hangs up quickly. Dean's sure he have an email in an hour with the parameters of his new project, what she can begin to expect and how he wants it to be pitched. It's nothing he cares about, but it's enough of a distraction to keep him busy. For now.

*

The weight loss is just a side effect of Dean's whirring mind. It's an excuse, comfortable as a childhood blanket that still carries the scent of his parents; he can believe in his own song and dance, can push reality far away with a single thought. He has a downpour of words flowing over him at all times, one that trickles out through his fingers, the cursor on his laptop a blur from trying to keep up. It's the coffee and the cigarettes and the sleep he's not getting that's cutting him down to core muscle and protruding veins, stomach straddling the line between flat and concave. His face is leaner, eyes bigger and stark with the lines he's weaving internally, dialogue and characterization and the details that make humans tick, all while forgetting his own.

He doesn't think about the dreams. He doesn't dwell on the phantom touches, the sweep of fingernails down his skin, curling in patterns that make breath come fast; teeth against his neck, his own name gasped into the shell of his ear. No, he doesn't think about them or dwell on them or think it strange that every time he wakes up from one the taste of the vampire finds its way to his tongue, that the other man's scent is almost tangible. He just breathes it in and rolls over, sometimes lazily rutting against the bed and his hand until he finds a moment of suspension where time stops and just lets his mind go long enough to drift blearily back to unfulfilling sleep. Thinking about it takes too much energy, steals his appetite, greedy bite by bite until he's left with nothing, just the constant pour of his newest book.

He's in Starbucks, typing-deleting-typing and contemplating his fifth coffee when a hand comes down on his shoulder. He starts and turns from the screen, surprised to see a woman standing close, a plate in her hand. She sets it down, dark hair spilling over her shoulder as she does and looks at him with eyes that could stop his heart.

They're blue, a shade different that Ca—than the vampire's, but they're close. And then she speaks and he has to come back from the mental reverie their depths spin him into.

“Whatever it is,” she's saying, a faint blush coloring her cheeks as she twists the band on her left finger nervously, “I hope it gets better.”

 _Me too,_ Dean thinks, mouth open, as she walks away, leaving the coffee shop. _Me too._

The brownie tastes like dirt, crumbling into a gritty film as it touches his tongue.

*

He doesn't _see_ anyone watching him. But whatever he's doing, wherever he is, it feels like the weight of a slitted gaze follows, a presence looking through blinds that slips around corners just as Dean looks up. The invisible scrutiny is tiring, though not as much as the constant barrage of calls from people, the dogged, determined ones who won't take a hint and leave him alone when he hems and haws and tells them he's busy every time they suggest dinner or lunch, a movie or a stroll through the nearby park. Sam had good friends, but Dean isn't looking to be adopted.

So life keeps moving, and he with it, until the morning it all comes crashing down. It's a nothing day, a false-start wake up call to an overcast sky, the grey kind of day that has him turning over, hiding from the weak light of the sunrise and falling back to sleep. A few hours later, to a steady torrent of rain, he wakes again, though this time he slides his feet from under the comforting weight of his blankets. Spots and tv-snow fuzz obscure his sight as he stands. A wave of dizziness settles and he's pitching and rolling, arms spread, trying not to hit anything as he falls. It's a slow-motion descent, one that takes long enough for him to feel the icy hitch that interrupts the steady beat of his heart, that spreads through his chest and down his arms and legs.

It's funny, though. He never seems to hit the floor.

When, for the third time, his eyes open and consciousness resumes, a voice stops him from the sitting position he tries to pull himself into.

“Don't,” he hears, a soft little warning. “Just lay back.”

His body reacts to the voice before his mind catches up. He's a thrumming pulse, adrenaline and the pitch of lust that darkens his eyes and sends his blood low.

“Cas,” he scrubs a hand over his face, unsure if the voice is a trick of his own mind.

“What are you doing here?” the question is a growl in his throat, the sting of rejection still too close to let go. Castiel's proximity ignites a fight between his wounded pride and the small surge of hope that flutters in his stomach.

“I can't let it end like this.”

Dean rolls his eyes, braces himself against the headboard and sits up. He's unprepared. Castiel remains the same as ever, beautiful, but the eyes that skim over Dean are haunted. They're deathbed eyes, fatigue so deep Dean wonders how the vampire's still standing.

“Melodramatic statements aside, Cas, I've got to wonder about your memory. Because it's already over. I got the hint the first time.”

“Dean, something happened. I—I didn't intend—”

“To what, _Castiel?_ You didn't intend to kill me. You didn't intend to hurt me. Well, you know what they say about intentions.”

“I just wanted you, Dean. I wanted you. But if I had turned you then, if I'd let myself, I would be the monster you thought me to be.” The vampire's hands open and close, eyes shifting and blinking too many times to be casual. There's something off there, something Dean's missing.

“So what changed?”

“I made a mistake.” Head down, Castiel speaks to his shoes.

“You make a lot of those.”

“I'm trying to fix this one.” Castiel takes a step forward, and though Dean should tell him to back off, to stay away, he doesn't. He craves the vampire, the other man's touch, the feel of him, the electricity that jumps between them, sparking wildly. He's missed Castiel more than he can say.

“When I drank from you, and you from me, we started something,” Cas, emboldened now, sits on the bed, though he doesn't touch. “I thought it would go away. I thought it would diminish when you left. But it didn't, Dean. It didn't and now it's killing us both.”

“Your mistake wasn't whatever is between us,” Dean murmurs, reaching a half-asleep hand out to grip Cas' wrist. The vampire is pliant, eyes widening when Dean takes hold. “It was when you thought you could make decisions for me. When you thought you could change how I felt because you knew what was best.” His grip on the other man tightens, nails digging in. “But my mind hasn't changed, Cas. This whole time, I was waiting. Waiting for you to realize that.”

“It took me awhile,” Castiel admits, a flicker of longing pulling his voice down low. “But I think I get it now.”

“Yeah?” Dean draws his hand back, aware of the warm wetness covering the tips of his fingers. Castiel has five half-moon shaped gashes on his skin, a neat little constellation spread out over his wrist. “Then you'll understand what I'm trying to say when I do this.”

Slowly, deliberately, he licks Cas' blood, the taste of dark chocolate and exhilaration, off his fingers.


	7. Chapter 7

Castiel's eyes, Dean notices, are not a solid blue. They're a finger painting of light and dark, unusual shades of sunrise yellow and white's pale flush. They're the sea at night and the sky in the afternoon, a brilliance that lights up for him now, widening almost comically as his last finger, licked clean, slips from between his lips, wet and slightly sticky.

Dean expects something instantaneous, a burst of lightning within to signal the coming change. But he’s distracted by the way Castiel is looks at him, the vampire’s gaze darkening with hunger Dean doesn’t think has anything to do with blood.

“Do you know what you just did?” Castiel’s voice is the glass-calm surface of a lake at rest. But Dean knows better, recognizes the balled-heat forming inside, so similar to the crescendo of passion and need that comes just before release.

“That’s kind of the point, Cas.” His still-sticky fingers glide over the worn-soft cotten of his old comforter, a relic of his parents he keeps at the foot of the bed, pulling it over himself when he’s too sick or lonely to care about how pathetic he is. “I made a decision. I did it without being convinced, without you telling me what’s right or wrong or good for me. I chose, Cas. I’m choosing you.”

  
The last syllable that crosses his lips is breathed into Castiel’s mouth. The vampire is  _right there_ , pressing them close, taking advantage of Dean’s parted lips. This kiss has no agenda, no mind games or hesitation behind it. It’s animal and perfect, human and vampire drinking each other in until they break to breathe, lips still touching, gasped air swirling between them. Castiel’s hands cradle Dean’s face, framing his strong jaw. The raw intimacy there is terrifying, pure and strange and all Dean knows is that he can’t lose this.

“Finish it, Cas.”

The vampire’s eyelashes are long, curved, and they fall to his cheeks as he looks down and sighs out a breath. “I’m going to drink, Dean. You’re going to feel like the room is spinning and you’re falling through the floor, but I’ve got you. I’ve got you. And I need you to hold on to me, to hold on to my voice and  _stay,_ alright?”

A nod is all he can give, his voice retreating back to the confines of his throat. He eyes the vampire’s mouth, taking in the teeth that have glided down and leans in until their foreheads touch. He lingers there, breathing in the quiet scent of lilac soap and faded cologne until he decides the moment needs to come. A small turn of his head is all it takes to arch his neck up, to bare it and invite death and life, the power of both intertwined, to take him.

Castiel's mouth mouth is closed when it touches down, warmth meeting warmth. He's right over a main artery, a jutting beat like a drum, teasing just under the vampire's lips. Dean's mouth quirks up when he feels a kiss that drags down along the length of neck, gasps when Cas' tongue laves at the skin, one, two, three licks and there are hands tightening around his arms as teeth sink through flesh. The sting is piercing, reaches into his chest and squeezes, lungs turning to iron, making everything but the roaring wave of agony a slip-slide stream of static. The relief of its passing is enough to make Dean weep, though he can't isn't sure if he's not already; his body feels far away, a sort of distant shell he has no connection to. Dean waits for the geyser of pleasure Castiel's bite had brought before, but it doesn't come.

A breeze wraps itself around Dean, a gust like humid beach air that brushes his forehead, traces his lips and hums in his ears, a familiar, soothing noise. It settles over him like an ocean he throws himself into, riding the waves as they wash over him, rocking, rocking until he's adrift and falling fast. It's a death sleep that brushes over his cheek now, the slow fade of heart and mind and body, but oh, it's  _good,_ peaceful.   
  


_I'll see you soon, Sammy._ The thought blooms from the darkest part of him, the pit of nothingness that would embrace leaving this life behind, that craves to see the faces of all those who left too early. He's circling something, tumbling down, falling apart when the wind comes back, plucking at him, prodding, insistent. He turns from it, curling away, trying to just let go because it's easy and it feels  _right._

_Dean. Please._

It's not a voice, not even words, really, but the meaning is clear, and it erupts like a firework inside him.

_Stay, Dean. You can't leave._

Each letter is an anchor on his soul, weighing it down, pinning it back into his body before he can slip away, ether light, into whatever lies beyond.

_Cas._

_Stay with me, Dean._

And he wants to, now. He's blind, trying to edge closer to what he'd been running away from, trying to find a way to keep the vampire near. But sleep is pulling at the back of his eyes, running its long fingers over stuttering breaths and a heart that's beginning to trip out of its natural rhythm, the steady human beat he's about to leave behind. But just as the fear of not being able to hang on long enough rolls through him and it feels like he's digging his toes and fingernails into the black hole bent on absorbing him, something changes. Castiel isn't just a taste on the tip of his tongue, a hollow ghost echoing through his mind. He has a foundation now, and every thought that passes through the vampire's consciousness reaches Dean too, a tangle of guilt and love and grey-tinged sadness for a woman he's finally letting go. Dean opens himself to the barrage that pours through him, the entirety that is Castiel, the tormented soul that forgot its own beauty for too long, the man who thought himself a monster and almost let himself become one.

  
Dean opens his eyes. The world in front of him is blurred and he views it through a film, a solid haze that sends him into a frenzy, neurons firing, ordering his legs and arms to move, to do  _something,_ but the limbs remain still, disobedient.

  
“I can't see,” he whispers, the strongest noise his lungs can support, fear bleeding black into each syllable.

“It's ok, Dean.” A hand runs over his forehead, smoothing the lines there. Then, a noise, loud like something breaking, snapping. It's close to his ear and then there's pressure on his mouth, and he understands.

  
“Come back to me,” Castiel whispers, free hand on Dean's neck, coaxing him to take what's being offered, the night blood that's being poured down his throat, a gift that's already begun to change him, to shift him from mortal to immortal. Fleeting moments into solid permanence. With each swallow, the world reveals itself again, though this time it's a sharper, clearer place. The details are dizzying; an array of colors and shades he's never seen, each one absorbing as the next, all fascinating to eyes that can't properly process anything yet. So he lets them fall shut, preferring the absorption that is bliss and nirvana and sex trickling down his throat in hot streams, filling his stomach until there's no room but it doesn't matter, he wants  _more._ He's flying, losing himself as the blood overtakes him, the cells of his body changing as Castiel's essence brushes each molecule, leaving nothing untouched.

When the source of perfection is taken away, Dean grunts, a guttural, needy sound that earns him a chuckle, a throaty purr of amusement that hits him low. He's mindless now, hips rocking up, looking for a replacement, something to keep the wave of pleasure going. On any other occasion, he would be ashamed of the desperation driving him, but when a hand wraps around his length and a mouth meets his own, he forgets everything but the quick race to completion. He pants, quick and shallow and Castiel mimics him, their breaths a chorus of silent companionship, though Dean can barely think of anything but what's happening inside him, the slow build of momentum, the first climb of a roller coaster, the drop of a stomach as it remembers gravity. Castiel jerks faster, thumbs Dean's slit and leaves him blind, his orgasm crashing through him, choirs singing and breathless laughter, ripples of toe-curling ecstasy doing their best to make consciousness slip away entirely.

But then Castiel licks his way into Dean's mouth again, slicking his tongue over the former human's lips like he can't get enough of the taste, of the  _closeness,_ but Dean just might be alright with that. He moves his lips, a slow dance of reassuring pressure, a response so Castiel knows he's alright. That he's going to make it.

“Why didn't it hurt?”

When he saw Castiel's turning, dirt under the man's fingernails, writhing like a man possessed, limbs jerking this way and that, he had expected the worst. He'd gnashed his teeth together and told himself to man the fuck up, because a moment of torture for a lifetime with someone good? There's no comparison, no doubt. Only trust, only certainty.

“Because I wasn't looking to torture you,” Castiel's words waft over Dean's mouth, the scent of the vampire's blood carried with every word.

“He—your—”

“Maker.” A hand settles on his hip, thumb tracing circles there. Distracting him. “Open your eyes, Dean.”

If Dean hesitates, Cas doesn't call him on it, doesn't even blink when the new vampire eases his eyes open as if they were about to be burnt out. For a moment, his too-perfect sight leaves him breathless, gasping at the clarity of what had been blurry most of his life, corrected by glasses and contacts. But then something shifts and his sight eases into something more natural, and all he sees is Cas.

Cas, who's biting his lips with still-extended fangs, who's looking at Dean with uncertainty, fear of abandonment creeping in at the edges of his mouth, drawing his brows together.

“Your maker tortured you on purpose?”

“He deliberately made my change excruciating, yes.”

Anger colors Dean's cheeks, a flush Cas traces, adjusting on the bed, pressing his other hand under his jaw. They're both covered to the waist, sheets rumpled, though far less bloody than Dean expected.

“I would kill him,” Dean's a little scared of the rage-slicked brutality he feels, the need to right how badly Castiel had been wronged.

“I know,” Cas says. “I know. But it's buried now. And I have you. That's all that matters.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” he whispers, drawing his cheek against the other man's, sighing into the velvet caress of skin against skin, synapses lit up and sparking wildly. “Hope you're ready for forever.”    
  


“I think I can handle that.” 

***

Dean wakes to the slide of sheets under his cheek, each woven fiber discernible to the skin there. The sensation flares through him as he stretches, muscles taught as wire, a momentary burn before the sweet relief of relaxation. The pleasure is unexpected, sends blood low until he's distracted by the cool path of a single digit tracing its way across his skin. 

"Focus, Dean. It'll get easier." The gravel of Castiel's voice is something like a life raft to a man adrift at sea; it battles the heartbeats of his neighbors and the chirping of insects as they move through grass, voices low and high pitched, weaving a patchwork of stimuli that sets his teeth on edge. 

He opens his eyes, and sees the ocean and the sea and the gray of angry clouds before a storm. Cas' eyes track his, his mouth pulling up sideways in a grin that's the first breath of the sun's light on a new day. 

"Hey," he whispers, bringing his hand up to cup Dean's cheek, thumb rubbing across a plush bottom lip. The touch jangles through his spine, lighting up nerves that almost have him spasming. 

"Hey," Dean replies, eyes narrowing at the sound of his own voice. Deeper, maybe; layered with richer tones than it had ever been before. He breathes in, an automatic tic and is dizzy with the new information carried through him; it's Cas, deodorant and cologne and the calm before a storm, and it's blood, Cas' and someone else's, a human tang mixed with the richer, heady scent of the vampire's own essence. 

“Oh,” startled, his mouth opens, making room for his lengthening teeth. The sensation is like a sigh, something right falling into place and he only pauses for a moment before reaching his fingers up, tracing  _fangs_ , eyes wide. Cas, hand still on Dean's cheek, explores too, thumb grazing the tip of a fang and then he's  _pushing,_ ripping so the fount of blood just underneath that fragile skin bubbles to the surface, dripping over Dean's tongue, all black cherry and fire to his senses. 

“Go on,” Cas urges, pulling his hand away to place it on Dean's hip, arching his neck back so it's a long line of welcome, of waiting. "Take what you need." 

Dean presses closed lips there first, a kiss, and lets his breath ghost over Cas' neck, unsure for a second before instinct takes over, the pulse is found and he's driving his fangs in, through, taking Cas into him hot and steady. 

"You're beautiful," he hears, the words curling around his ear as he swallows, warmth streaming down his throat. 

 _You're what I need,_ he thinks, sighing into Cas' skin, and though the words aren't said aloud, he thinks maybe Cas understands anyway.  

 


End file.
